The Pope, Statues And Me

Confounded old age, I keep looking at a blank screen a plateau of nothingness, except for this ridicules idea that I must travel to Rome and see the statues I once wrote about; and perhaps have little chat with pope about this and that. I must talk to him now before the Vatican machine brainwashes him into conforming to a glorious robed pope, a person of empty rituals. If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, a false moustache and a nonchalant way of walking, we could look at the statues; then over a few beers, Brazilian sausages, with Italian flavour; tell him a secret so deep he might reject it as fantasy by a deluded person. Dear Brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb, but I was kidnapped by Gypsies, grew up in a camp of filth as an underdog in our democratic society and know how demeaning poverty is and can help you with your austerity program. You are, the bishop of Rome. There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embraces me or call the guards; whichever way he will not forget me and the statues of Rome.